MAP OF PLENTITUDE
The illustrations of plentitude in the novel fall under a multiplicity of headings (as is only appropriate, I suppose.) One area is in regard to the facets of an individual’s personality, beginning with Corinne. The first example of this self-definition occurs in her response to Oswald’s letter attacking the promiscuity of ideas and conduct in Italy: “What you chose to attribute to sorcery in my is an unrestrained temperament which sometimes exhibits opposing feelings and divergent thoughts without endeavoring to make them agree with each other, for such agreement, when it exists, is nearly always artificial and most sincere characters are inconsequential” (99). Corinne admits that the orchestra of emotions within her is not always harmonious, but she sees potential for growth in this collection of unsettled impulses. When her all-encompassing obsession with Oswald eventually overwhelms all other powers, the validity of this early claim is only made more credible. Later, when she outlines her long-awaited past life for Oswald, Corinne emphasizes the special blessing of her dual schooling: “I could therefore think that it was my destiny to have particular advantages because of the unusual circumstances of my dual education and, if I may put it that way, two different nationalities” (256). A tolerance for opposing ideas without the quick impulse to choose sides is among the many virtues that separates Corinne from Oswald. His melancholy despair is a living echo of his rigidly singular upbringing. Finally, the plentitude within an individual is cast in broad terms during the narration that begins the events of Holy Week: “Within the soul a thousand chance events take place, a thousand habits are formed, each making individual a world with its history. To know another completely would be a lifetime’s study. So what is meant by ‘knowing’ men? To govern them may be possible, but only God can understand them” (168). The complexity of an individual’s impulses is a wonder perceivable only by the divine. The awed tone of this observation implies that the heart most fraught with intricacy is also the most compelling evidence of heavenly handiwork.
de Staël’s praise of this trait also extends beyond the individual to art and literature. Perhaps the most enjoyable praise of plentitude occurs in the counter-example offered by Count d’Erfeuil as he spews ignorant opinions about literature to Corinne: “It would be impossible for [the French] to put up with the inconsistencies of the Greeks or the monstrosities of Shakespeare on the stage…. French taste is too pure for that… to introduce any foreign element into it would be to plunge us into barbarism” (119). Although the Count is harmlessly dense, a close cousin of his headstrong prejudice proves disastrous when it is exhibited by Lady Edgermond.
The most thought-provoking examples of multiplicity are spoken in regard to religion. Most notably, Corinne and Oswald are inspired by their shared Easter celebration to reach an “All steeples point the same direction” style truce: “Corrine and Lord Nelvil felt that all forms of worship are alike. Religious feeling binds men close together when vanity and fanaticism do not make it an object of jealousy and hatred. Praying together, in whatever language, according to whatever rite, is the most moving fraternity of hope and sympathy that man can develop on this earth” (182). Corrine offers a similar sentiment, but now explosively mixing the religious with something quite foreign, when she has a holy man attempt to seal her house from the plague: “I find an indefinable charm in everything religious, I would even say superstitious, if there is no hostility or intolerance in the superstition…. Divine help is so necessary when thoughts and feelings are beyond the ordinary concerns of life. Above all, it is for exceptional minds that I think supernatural protection is required” (272).
In the areas of individual emotion, art, and religion, de Staël outlines that the advantages of acknowledging and allowing for an array of voices outweigh the challenges of patience and diligence this balance requires.
AVOIDING REDUCTION
My best suggestion for reducing the temptations of reduction is not very original or earth-shattering, but I think it remains accurate: context. The more complete a picture the reader has of the historical moment and accompanying tensions, the less convenient it feels to reduce strong emotion to melodrama, or sincere angst to cliché. As we moved through the third quarter of Corinne, I found myself frequently marking passages with the exclamation, “Ugh!” A notable example would be as Corinne and Oswald wait for his transport to England and the following occurs: “She turned round towards Oswald, and found him prostrate before her in frightening convulsions. The excess of his emotions had surpassed his strength. He rejected Corinne’s help, he wanted to die, and his reason seemed completely gone” (301). I recognize that my instinctive reaction is shaped by my perception as a 21st century reader, and probably does not properly account for the depth and complexity of this scenario, were it facing genuine flesh-and-blood characters at this point in history. If I were reading this novel a second time, a first step toward less knee-jerk reactions like the above would be some preliminary reading to beef up my background regarding the time period.
MAP OF PLENTITUDE
The illustrations of plentitude in the novel fall under a multiplicity of headings (as is only appropriate, I suppose.) One area is in regard to the facets of an individual’s personality, beginning with Corinne. The first example of this self-definition occurs in her response to Oswald’s letter attacking the promiscuity of ideas and conduct in Italy: “What you chose to attribute to sorcery in my is an unrestrained temperament which sometimes exhibits opposing feelings and divergent thoughts without endeavoring to make them agree with each other, for such agreement, when it exists, is nearly always artificial and most sincere characters are inconsequential” (99). Corinne admits that the orchestra of emotions within her is not always harmonious, but she sees potential for growth in this collection of unsettled impulses. When her all-encompassing obsession with Oswald eventually overwhelms all other powers, the validity of this early claim is only made more credible. Later, when she outlines her long-awaited past life for Oswald, Corinne emphasizes the special blessing of her dual schooling: “I could therefore think that it was my destiny to have particular advantages because of the unusual circumstances of my dual education and, if I may put it that way, two different nationalities” (256). A tolerance for opposing ideas without the quick impulse to choose sides is among the many virtues that separates Corinne from Oswald. His melancholy despair is a living echo of his rigidly singular upbringing. Finally, the plentitude within an individual is cast in broad terms during the narration that begins the events of Holy Week: “Within the soul a thousand chance events take place, a thousand habits are formed, each making individual a world with its history. To know another completely would be a lifetime’s study. So what is meant by ‘knowing’ men? To govern them may be possible, but only God can understand them” (168). The complexity of an individual’s impulses is a wonder perceivable only by the divine. The awed tone of this observation implies that the heart most fraught with intricacy is also the most compelling evidence of heavenly handiwork.
de Staël’s praise of this trait also extends beyond the individual to art and literature. Perhaps the most enjoyable praise of plentitude occurs in the counter-example offered by Count d’Erfeuil as he spews ignorant opinions about literature to Corinne: “It would be impossible for [the French] to put up with the inconsistencies of the Greeks or the monstrosities of Shakespeare on the stage…. French taste is too pure for that… to introduce any foreign element into it would be to plunge us into barbarism” (119). Although the Count is harmlessly dense, a close cousin of his headstrong prejudice proves disastrous when it is exhibited by Lady Edgermond.
The most thought-provoking examples of multiplicity are spoken in regard to religion. Most notably, Corinne and Oswald are inspired by their shared Easter celebration to reach an “All steeples point the same direction” style truce: “Corrine and Lord Nelvil felt that all forms of worship are alike. Religious feeling binds men close together when vanity and fanaticism do not make it an object of jealousy and hatred. Praying together, in whatever language, according to whatever rite, is the most moving fraternity of hope and sympathy that man can develop on this earth” (182). Corrine offers a similar sentiment, but now explosively mixing the religious with something quite foreign, when she has a holy man attempt to seal her house from the plague: “I find an indefinable charm in everything religious, I would even say superstitious, if there is no hostility or intolerance in the superstition…. Divine help is so necessary when thoughts and feelings are beyond the ordinary concerns of life. Above all, it is for exceptional minds that I think supernatural protection is required” (272).
In the areas of individual emotion, art, and religion, de Staël outlines that the advantages of acknowledging and allowing for an array of voices outweigh the challenges of patience and diligence this balance requires.
AVOIDING REDUCTION
My best suggestion for reducing the temptations of reduction is not very original or earth-shattering, but I think it remains accurate: context. The more complete a picture the reader has of the historical moment and accompanying tensions, the less convenient it feels to reduce strong emotion to melodrama, or sincere angst to cliché. As we moved through the third quarter of Corinne, I found myself frequently marking passages with the exclamation, “Ugh!” A notable example would be as Corinne and Oswald wait for his transport to England and the following occurs: “She turned round towards Oswald, and found him prostrate before her in frightening convulsions. The excess of his emotions had surpassed his strength. He rejected Corinne’s help, he wanted to die, and his reason seemed completely gone” (301). I recognize that my instinctive reaction is shaped by my perception as a 21st century reader, and probably does not properly account for the depth and complexity of this scenario, were it facing genuine flesh-and-blood characters at this point in history. If I were reading this novel a second time, a first step toward less knee-jerk reactions like the above would be some preliminary reading to beef up my background regarding the time period.